


Salt and Flowers

by VagrantWriter



Series: Salt and Steel [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Genital Mutilation, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Stories about the men's lives Theon Greyjoy would have changed if their paths had ever crossed.Theon meets a broken young man at the crossroads inn.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Loras Tyrell
Series: Salt and Steel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962490
Comments: 37
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi-diddly, ho-diddly, readerinos. This is the first in my new sister series to [Iron and Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/series/200594).
> 
> This particular fic is set squarely in show canon, as a challenge to myself to redeem Loras's story arc. I tried to make as few changes as possible (although obviously both Theon and Loras are still alive here). The changes that were made will be elaborated on in future chapters and may or may not involve certain key characters using a modicum of common sense.

“This was where he killed Lady.”

Theon looked up from his soup. “Your Grace?”

“I told you, you shouldn’t call me that.” Sansa’s rigid demeanor would come off as chastisement to any observers, but to Theon it was only raw concern he heard in her voice. “Not this far south,” she added, quieter, and with a hint of a smile.

“Yes…Lady Stark.” Theon did his best to smile back. “But what were you saying…about killing a lady?”

“My direwolf, Lady.” Sansa twirled her spoon between her fingers. “We were staying here when Father killed her…at the Queen’s command.”

Theon stared down into his watery soup, because he wasn’t sure what to say. Not at first. “Cersei’s dead,” he said at last.

Sansa smiled again, a rueful smile. An unhappy smile. “I knew back then, you know, what Cersei really was. I knew right at the moment when she demanded Lady be killed… Lady didn’t even do anything wrong, mind you. It wasn’t _Lady_ who attacked her precious boy. I was blind to Joffrey, but I knew, even back then, what sort of monster Cersei was.”

“She’s gone,” Theon said. “She can’t hurt you anymore.”

He knew what it was like, to only hear it. But hearing it often did help. A little.

“No,” Sansa mused, “I suppose she can’t hurt anyone from under a pile of rubble.”

They were silent for a long moment. Theon went back to his soup only when Sansa did.

Theon supposed he could offer some nicety about how Danaerys Targaryen was a new queen, a better queen. How with Jon by her side, she was likely to hear Sansa out about a free and independent North. But the two of them—Theon and Sansa—were beyond such empty platitudes. They knew each other too well for that. The Wardeness of the North and her Hand.

He ladled more soup into his mouth. It was overly salty, but better than broth. He did not complain much these days. He was alive, after all, which was more than many could say. And honestly, it was better than he deserved.

He shook his head. Sansa would take him to task for thinking like that.

No, he was glad to be alive, to have survived. To be here with Sansa, by her side, on the way down to King’s Landing. Yara would be there. It would be very nice to see her again. And Jon. And for tonight, the inn was warm, and his belly was full. A little salt was not worth complaining over.

Unfortunately, as he took another sip, he realized it wasn’t only his belly that was full.

“My Lady.” He set his spoon down and pushed back his chair. “I’m afraid I have to use the privy.”

“You don’t need my permission,” she said plainly.

“Will you be…all right here…by yourself, I mean?”

“I’ll make do with the guards.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “Would you take one of the men with you?”

“Ah, I…” Theon ran his tongue over his chapped lip. “I’d rather not, My Lady.” His face grew warm. His…condition was not unknown to the guards, of course, but he would rather forego any company while he… It was an unpleasant business, and more time-consuming than when he’d had a cock.

Sansa was nothing if not understanding. She nodded. “Just be careful, Theon. We’re not in the North anymore.”

No, they surely were not.

Theon wrapped his cloak tighter about himself as he stepped out of the inn. It was warmer down south, but only marginally. Only in the sense that he wasn’t in danger of losing his nose or fingers from simply stepping outside to take a piss.

The snow was packed down from the feet of men and their horses, and easy to slip on. He walked like an old man to the privy, taking small steps so as not to fall. There were not many out of doors on a night like this, but he could hear the inn workers going about their tasks inside. The soft hum of voices in the kitchen, the clinking of pots and plates. The chuttering of animals huddled close together against the cold.

And then a sudden commotion. There was a muffled “ _oomph_ ” and then a clattering, and then a shattering. Theon immediately flinched. He was all too familiar with the sound of plates breaking, and the repercussions that followed.

“Clumsy boy!” a woman’s voice wailed, and Theon had to breathe in sharply to remind himself that he wasn’t in trouble, that he wasn’t going to be punished. “You’re not worth the space you take up.”

“Sorry,” a reedy voice answered. “I—I’m so sorry. I—the ice and I—”

“I ought to turn you out,” the woman raged on, and as Theon crept closer, he could see her shadow on the snow, flinging its arms about, and the smaller shadow hunched over in front of her. “Let a pig take your place in the sty.

“No, please, I’ve nowhere to go, ma’am.”

The woman snorted, and Theon was so close now that he could see her breath on the air. “A pig might be another mouth to feed, but at least it’ll be _worth_ something once it’s dead. Unlike you, who can’t even remember that we have a _bucket_ for slops, even after I’ve told you a thousand times.”

Theon peered around the corner and finally saw them. The woman was as large as her shadow, short, squat, solid. The “clumsy” boy was on his hands and knees in the snow, gathering up the broken pieces of plate. His hair was long, limp, and obscured most of his face. On purpose, it seemed, because the few glimpses Theon could see were marred by vicious burn marks. The woman’s form kept the warmth and light spilling out of the open doorway from reaching the boy.

“It won’t happen again, ma’am,” the boy muttered. He did not pronounce it “mum” like the common folk Theon knew. “I promise.”

“You promised the last time. And the time before that.” The woman put her hands on her hips. “I’m not running a charity here, you know.”

The boy lowered his head and murmured a halfhearted, “It’s the ice…”

The familiarity of the scene, and the defeat in the boy’s voice, brought on a swell of déjà vu. Theon suddenly felt lightheaded. Like someone was squeezing his lungs. He leaned against the wall, just for a moment. Just to catch his bearings and remind himself that he wasn’t back _there_. He was _here_ , and Ramsay was buried deep under the ground and ice. He wasn’t in trouble, he wasn’t in trouble, he wasn’t—

He must have made some noise, because the woman’s head whipped up. She gave him a narrow-eyed glare before taking in his appearance. “M’lord.” She snapped up straight. “I’m terribly sorry. Was he bothering you with all his noise?”

Theon pushed off the wall, gathered himself. “No, not at all.” He looked at the boy, who quickly looked away. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, pay him no mind, he’s always tripping over his feet.” The woman waved her hand dismissively. “Was there something you needed, m’lord?”

Theon blinked. “Er…I was just…” He jerked his chin to the wooden lean-to that served as the inn’s privy.

“Oh, m’lord, there’s no need for you to be out in this cold.” The woman hiked up her apron. “I’ll have a chamber pot brought to your room right away.”

“Please,” Theon said, “you don’t need to do that.” She had no way of knowing why he’d want the privacy of the outdoors, and he couldn’t very well tell her.

“It’s no trouble, m’lord.” She turned to the boy. “Hurry and clean this mess up, and then bring a chamber pot to the lord’s room. Unless you’ll break that too. I’m sure you could find a way to manage it, you useless creature.”

Theon winced.

“Don’t mind him, m’lord,” the woman said, misreading the discomfort on Theon’s face. “Go in and warm yourself up a bit. It’s too cold to be standing here.”

“Er…yes,” Theon agreed. “Thank you.”

With that, the woman turned and retreated back into the warmth of the kitchen, pausing only to give him a questioning glance.

“I’ll take the proper entrance,” Theon said evasively.

“Of course, m’lord,” she said, surmising, as Theon had hoped she would, that he did not wish to be exposed to the kitchen workers and their dirt. She had no way of knowing he’d been exposed to much worse dirt daily, lived in it during the years he’d spent… He was glad she didn’t know, that he did not have to explain it to her, and she closed the door behind her.

Without the light from the kitchens, it was much darker out. Overhead, a gibbous moon cast cold light upon them.

The boy continued gathering up bits of broken pottery, groping about in the half-light. “I’m sorry to bother you, my lord,” he murmured.

“You could come to Winterfell.”

The boy’s head jerked up. His hair fell away, and Theon could see that his face was badly burned on one side. But despite that, he was a very handsome boy—a man, really. Probably no younger than Theon himself.

“Pardon?”

“You said you had nowhere to go,” Theon said. “If she does turn you out, you’d be welcome at Winterfell. They always need working hands.”

“Up North?” The boy wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t it cold enough here as it is?”

Theon cocked his head at the sudden attitude. “It’s cold everywhere. And I’ve heard the maesters say they expect a shorter winter than we’ve ever seen before.”

“I’ve heard that too. I heard…” The boy quickly combed his hair over his face, but wasn’t looking away anymore. “I heard it’s because of the battle up there. The Battle for the Dawn they’re calling it.” His eyes met Theon’s. Theon couldn’t tell what color they were in the dark, just that they were large and full of hurt. And for a second he had the strangest sensation of looking into a mirror. “Were you there, my lord?”

“I was.” Theon’s hand instinctively went to his side, where the Night King’s spear had pierced him. There was no pain there now. In truth, there was no feeling at all, and the skin was continually cold to the touch, no matter how long he’d been sitting by a fire. He shouldn’t be alive.

It wasn’t a matter of deserving or not.

By rights, he should not have survived it.

“The realm owes you a debt then.” The boy’s words were hollow, and he looked away, breaking the moment. “Thank you, ser.”

Theon opened his mouth to say, “I’m no ser,” but then closed it. He was a ser. Sansa had knighted him. It still felt like an ill-fitting suit of armor to him. “Ser Theon,” he said instead. “May I ask your name?”

“Willas,” the boy said, too quickly, too practiced. “Willas Flowers.”

“Flowers? From the Reach?”

A slight pause. “Yes, my lord.”

Perhaps that explained why he spoke so properly. Perhaps lowborn bastards spoke that way in the Reach.

Theon doubted it.

“I won’t distract you from your work,” he said. The boy didn’t wish to continue speaking, and the urgency of his bladder was getting worse. “But the invitation stands. You _are_ welcome at Winterfell.”

The boy lowered his head. “That is a very kind offer, my lord,” he muttered. “I…will consider it.”

Theon looked up and down the road, but of course they were the only two about. And it was very cold. “If you’ve considered it in a week’s time, I’ll be heading back this way around then. You can ask for Ser Theon.”

“Are you, by chance, on your way to King’s Landing now, my lord?” There was a strange note in the boy’s voice.

“Yes,” Theon answered, somewhat hesitantly. “To pay allegiance to Queen Danaerys.” And to petition for the North’s freedom, but that was best left unsaid.

The boy nodded. “What happened to the old one? The queen, I mean. I’ve heard stories but…you can never be sure. Is it true what they say? That a dragon brought the Red Keep down on top of her?”

“I wasn’t there,” Theon admitted. Recovering at Winterfell. “But my sister was.”

The boy glanced up at him. “And?”

“It happened like you said,” Theon said. “The Queen’s dragon brought down the Red Keep, with Queen Cersei inside.” And a few hundred of King’s Landing’s smallfolk who had fled there for safety during the siege, but that was best left unsaid as well. As well as the fact that the city had been surrendered when it happened.

A breeze kicked up. The boy patted down his hair to keep the burned side of his face covered. “Good,” was all he said. And then he turned his attention back to his task.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one. I was sick. That's not really an excuse, except that it's easier to procrastinate when you're feeling sick.
> 
> Anyway, hoping to be more punctual with the final chapter. It's going to be pretty much 100% comfort. For everyone.

Loras wondered what he was doing.

He’d been wondering every day since he’d pulled himself out of the burning rubble of Baelor’s Sept. He’d relived those moments over again and again in his dreams

—the flash of green fire, the roar of it and the collective intake of breath—there had been no time to even scream or cry out—and then the walls collapsing down like the world itself was ending—

He still didn’t know how he’d survived. Just that when the earth had stopped moving, he was on the ground. There was blood in his eyes, and his skin was on fire. He hadn’t realized how literally, not right away.

_Where is Margaery?_ he thought. _She said it would be all right. She said…_

But Margaery had not been there, and he knew he could not wait for her. And so, he hadn’t.

He’d made his way to the street through sheer force of will, the same way he’d made his way up here, to the North. It was either keep moving—keep clawing your way over burning stone and bodies; keep moving your frozen feet through waist-deep snow—or lie down and die.

_Would that be so bad?_ he asked himself, often. To lie down and die.

_I just want it to end_ , he’d told Margaery.

Margaery was gone. His father and grandmother were gone—he’d learned of the latter through idle gossip. Cersei and the Sparrows were gone.

Renly was still gone.

And Loras kept moving anyway.

He’d managed to catch a wagon for the last leg of his journey up North, which was a relief because the ends of his toes had started to turn black with the cold. He rarely took off the wrappings, not keen on seeing. The rest of him was already a nightmare to look at. Honestly, he was lucky anyone had agreed to pick him up (to say nothing of what little compensation he could offer in return). _He_ avoided looking at himself whenever he could.

He didn’t used to hate mirrors.

The wagon’s wheels turned on the packed ice, while snow rose up on either side of them, taller than any man. Perhaps taller than a giant, even. Loras had never seen a giant, but he’d heard they’d been here. At Winterfell. During the Battle for the Dawn.

Off in the distance, the smoke rising from a thousand chimneys and huts was the only sign that Winterfell was close. Loras pulled his hair down over his face, and then pulled his knees up to his chin.

_What am I doing_? he wondered.

***

The wagon came to a stop in a courtyard, and Loras hopped down. His feet stung from the impact. The ground was frozen through completely, the mud more like rock.

Winterfell was nothing so elaborate as King’s Landing. It was all cold stone and straight edges. Stark, even. Loras didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Perhaps more indication that a battle had happened here.

A man in armor—at least, Loras thought he was in armor under all his furs—waved to the wagon driver and then sauntered over to Loras. “Business?” he asked. His voice was not overly friendly.

Loras felt the man’s eyes on him, on his ruined face. Perhaps on the bit of the Seven-Pointed Star that stilled remained under all the burns. There was a time he would have—and could have—easily knocked this man down, told him to show some respect for a Tyrell of High Garden. Instead Loras looked away.

“I was told Winterfell needed hands.”

“Aye,” the guard grunted, “hands, not mouths. Food’s scarce enough as it is. You’ll be expected to work for your share.”

“I can work,” Loras muttered.

“Mmm-hmm,” the guard hummed, doubtfully. “What sort of work can you do, boy?”

_Boy?_

“I can…” Loras looked down at his hands. His gloves were threadbare. Bits of burned flesh were visible through the holes in his right one. “I used to work with animals. Pigs,” he explained. “Feeding them and…taking care of them.”

The man grunted, and a gout of steamy breath blew out of his nostrils. “Think we have enough pig tenders as is.”

“Please.” Loras took a step forward, and the guard took one back, a look of disgust on his face. “Ser Theon said there would be a place for me.”

The man’s face softened, becoming more suspicious than disgusted. “Ser Theon told you that?”

Loras nodded. “You—you can ask—he’ll remember me.” He wasn’t sure that was true. It had been several weeks ago, and Ser Theon was an important person. He might well have forgotten a brief encounter with an inn worker. “Tell him Willas Flowers is here to take him up on his offer.”

The guard twisted his lip into a sort of rueful grin. “Yeah, yeah.” He made a swatting gesture, but there was no real malice to it. “Head on over to the stables. Ask for Hal. He’ll find something for you to do.”

“Oh.” Loras nodded again. “Yes…I—thank you.”

He’d gotten into the habit of thanking people since he’d become Willas Flowers.

He ducked his head and trotted off in the direction he supposed the stables were. The guard did not call after him to correct him, so he kept going.

It seemed like there weren’t many people about. The occasional grunt hauling bundled wood or hay from one doorway to the other, made sexless by layers and layers of fur. He had never quite been able to choke down the initial disgust he felt for them—the smallfolk. Even though he’d been living as one of them for over a year now. They were dirty. They were content scrabbling in the mud.

But so was he, now.

He didn’t want to ask any of them for directions, and so he wandered aimlessly for a bit, until he came to a wooden building with the chuffing sounds of horses coming from inside. Loras had always known the sounds of horses, and there was almost a in it. A reminder of a time when he’d ridden a beautiful horse, and worn beautiful armor, and stood next to a beautiful king.

The stable doors were closed to keep in the heat, and he tentatively pushed them open to peer inside, feeling like an intruder. He wasn’t Loras Tyrell anymore. He couldn’t just _go_ wherever he wanted, _do_ whatever he felt like.

Willas Flowers was more careful than Loras Tyrell had ever been.

There were voices coming from inside. Cultured. Not common folk. A man and a woman.

Loras peered in and saw them, standing in the row between the stables, backlit by a lantern. There were perhaps ten or so horses, but only two people. A man and a woman. He could tell because the woman wore a very fine lady’s cloak with the hood pulled up, and the man had a fur-lined cloak. His hair curled into ringlets, and Loras could not determine what color it was in the lamplight.

“—be honest with me, wouldn’t you?” the woman’s voice said. “Am I imagining it? Am _I_ the one going mad?”

“No.” The man sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His gloves were also fine, and made of leather. They had no holes. “No, you’re not going mad,” he said. The more he spoke, the more certain Loras was that the voice belonged to Ser Theon. “You recognize madness because you’ve seen it before. The same as me.”

The woman’s hood bobbed up and down as she nodded. “What’s to be done about it?”

“Madness runs deep. You know that as well as I. It poisons the roots.”

“Are you suggesting we pull the tree out by its roots?”

The man lowered his voice. “I’ve been communicating with Yara—”

Loras didn’t realize he’d put more weight on the door until the loud squeal of the rusted hinges hit his ears. The man and woman whipped around. Loras’s stomach twisted as their eyes landed on him.

He recognized the man. It was Ser Theon, as he’d guessed. But he also recognized the woman. He’d know her red hair anywhere.

Sansa Stark.

He should have anticipated seeing her. He’d heard she’d taken over Winterfell. Wardeness of the North. But somehow he’d never thought of it much. He remembered her as a sweet girl, if a bit dull in conversation. Margaery had liked her.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked, and her voice was _not_ that of a wide-eyed, innocent girl. “What are you doing here?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, pulling his hair over his face. She wouldn’t recognize him. Even if she didn’t know he was supposed to be dead, she would never recognize him with _this_ face. “I was…sent to ask after Hal. Your guard said he would be in the stables.”

“You were listening to our conversation, weren’t you? How much did you hear?”

“I…” Loras looked from Sansa to Ser Theon. “I heard nothing, my lady. Nothing...someone like me would understand. I was just…you’re Ser Theon, aren’t you?”

Ser Theon cocked his head.

“Do you remember me…?” Loras took a timid step inside.

_Timid_.

He’d become so timid. Hardly the Knight of Flowers anymore.

No, there was no danger of Sansa recognizing him.

“From the crossroads, ser.”

Ser Theon looked him up and down. There was no disgust in his eyes. Just curiosity. “Flowers,” he said at last. “Right? Willam Flowers?”

“Willas,” Loras corrected with a placating nod, though he was impressed Theon had remembered even that. He certainly never would have remembered some dirty kitchen worker’s name. Not before, at any rate. “You…you told me there would be a place for me in Winterfell…”

“I did.” Theon turned to him fully. “Of course you’re welcome here.”

Loras breathed out a sigh of relief. He’d had no plans for if he’d been turned away.

“You’ve come a long ways,” Theon observed.

Loras shrugged. “The man at the gate said I could tend to the horses…if you need another hand.”

“We can discuss that with the stable master.” Theon gestured to the door on the far side of the stables, leading into the castle proper. “But first, your lips are blue. Do you want to come in and warm up a bit?”

Loras instinctively sucked his lips in to hide them, but nodded. “Yes, ser. Thank you, ser. My lady.” He tilted his head to Sansa, who was just watching him with a curious look on her face. “I swear, I didn’t hear anything,” he rushed to add. He knew—had known, even before he’d become Willas—that overhearing the wrong thing could cost you your life. He shouldn’t have been listening.

_You weren’t careful._

“Of course,” Sansa finally said. Her face relaxed, and Loras caught just a glimpse of the girl he’d known briefly in King’s Landing, had been engaged to even. “Ser Theon will see that you’re seen to.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He shuffled forward, stumbling with his frostbitten toes.

Theon reached out to steady him.

Loras stared at the hand on his shoulder, realizing he’d not felt a kind touch since…

—Margaery had caressed his face and told him everything would be alright.

She’d been wrong—

“Easy,” Theon said, with not an ounce of disgust in his voice or on his face. Loras couldn’t understand it at all. He was worthy of disgust. He disgusted himself even. “There’s no need to hurry now. Winterfell isn’t going anywhere.”

“Yes…ser.” Loras nodded. Nodding, nodding. It was all he knew to do. “Thank you, ser.”


	3. Chapter 3

Theon held Yara’s note to the candlelight and read it for what must have been the tenth time, considering what he should write back. There was nothing serious in the letter, nothing that could be construed as treasonous if it should fall into the wrong hands. But to Theon, his sister’s discontent shone through quite clearly.

She shared their misgivings.

Yara had been there for the attack on King’s Landing. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she’d told Theon later, and it was hard to tell if the slight tremor in her voice was awe or fear. Yara was not someone who was easily awed _or_ frightened. “The dragons, you’ve seen them, little brother, but you haven’t _seen_ them. Their wrath…and hers.”

Queen Danaerys had still not granted the Iron Islands its independence, nor the North’s. She feared losing her remaining allies, that they would no longer come at her call. That they would leave her in her time of need. Perhaps her paranoia was no entirely unfounded.

There was unrest in King’s Landing. Some had embraced the Dragon Queen—those who saw the Red Keep as a symbol of tyranny—but not enough to rule by the will of the people alone. Jon reported that Danaerys more and more often shut herself up in her chambers. Yara reported the same. And while neither Jon nor Yara said as much in their correspondence, it was clear they worried for Queen Daenerys’s mind, just as Theon and Sansa did.

Theon desperately hoped she was not beyond reach. Fear and madness might hold the population at bay, for a time. But not forever.

He had learned this all too well from his own past.

The door creaked open and he looked up to see Willas enter. Willas was not an especially competent attendant, but he had surprised Theon by revealing that he could read. It was an uncommon skill among the smallfolk, and one Theon—with Sansa’s blessing—had seen fit to utilize.

“Reports,” Willas said, brandishing his tablets. “Inventory.”

“Ahh…thank you.” Theon pushed back from his desk. His eyes hurt from poring over letters all day. The days were dark, and the flickering of candles was hard on the eyes. He pinched his brow and massaged away some of the tension. “Just…set it on my desk, if you would. I’ll deal with it later.”

Willas shuffled forward. In the few weeks since he’d come to Winterfell, Theon had caught glimpses of the man he’d been before. Because there was no doubt in Theon’s mind that Willas _had_ been someone else before. Perhaps someone not unlike himself—his old self. Someone who had been cocky, sure of his place in the world.

The young man set the tablets on the desk and took a quick step back, as if Theon would strike him. “Is there anything else I can do you for, my lord?”

“Oh, um…”

Theon realized he’d been staring, because Willas had his head down and was pulling on his hair to cover his face. He often stared at people when he thought they weren’t looking, but he did not like to be stared at in return. Theon could hardly fault him. Willas must have thought he was staring at his scars, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Shall I toss another log on the fire, my lord?” Willas prompted.

“No, I think it’s fine for now.” Theon rubbed his face. His eyes burned. “Though I suppose it does need to be stoked.”

“I’ll take care of it, my lord.” Willas was all too quick to turn his face away and shuffle towards the fireplace. The young man jumped far too quickly at orders—and was terribly inept at most things. It was an incongruence that made Theon uncomfortable.

Someone had trained him.

“It’s late,” Theon commented, to fill the silence as Willas went about his task. “You can go to bed for the night, if you want.”

“I’ll finish here, my lord,” Willas said, hefting the poker in his hand. He was right-handed, and his right hand had been more badly burned than his left. Theon could tell, even though Willas always wore his gloves. Another thing they shared. But Willas did not flinch or tense as he prodded the logs in the fireplace. Even when they popped and spewed embers at him.

“Does it…bother you?” Theon asked.

“Mmm?” Willas turned to look over his shoulder.

“The fire?”

“Why should it bother me, my lord?”

Theon ran his hand over his face. Felt the empty place where one of his fingers shoulder be.

“You know, it took me a long time before I could go anywhere near the kennels again.”

Willas let the poker go slack in his grip, distracted from his chore. “The kennels, ser?”

“Sansa told me that’s where he’d died,” Theon began, slowly, deliberately. “But every time I walked near there, I would…seize up.” He felt it, then, in the icy coldness against the nape of his neck. Like a dead man’s breath. “I knew he would be there, when I walked by. That he would…scold me…for not…for…”

He trailed off and realized his hands were trembling. He forced them to stop.

“He would hurt you.”

Theon looked up.

Willas stood awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, poker still in hand. “The man you’re talking about. He would hurt you. Is that right?”

Theon took in a slow breath and steadied himself. “Right.”

Willas was looking at him now and not even hiding it. The burns pulled the right side of his skin taut. It had an almost purplish sheen to it. There were many survivors of the Battle for the Dawn who had suffered burns, plenty even more extensively than this young man. But none of them had scars with that particular color to them. It was even more pronounced in the flickering light from the fireplace, but Theon wasn’t looking at the scars. He was looking at the young man’s eyes, which held their own sort of fire. They really were a striking shade of green.

“Then…you know,” Willas said.

Theon nodded.

“I just…wanted it to end,” Willas continued, and he wasn’t even looking at Theon anymore. Somewhere else. Beyond him. “They were…they said I could make it end if I just…”

“I know,” Theon said, his voice near a whisper.

There was silence after that. Only the crackling of the fire and the wind pounding against the window.

“The fire doesn’t bother me,” Willas said at last. He seemed to remember he had the poker in his hand, and used it to point to the fireplace. “You can’t afford to be bothered by fire in the winter.”

Theon considered that a moment. “You’re right,” he admitted. He watched the logs catch again, and the flames flare with new heat and light. “You can go to bed now, Willas, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” Willas mumbled, idly flicking the poker. “Not really.”

“Not tired?”

“I’m always tired,” Willas said, in a tone that made Theon’s bones ache. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need before you retire for the night, ser?” he prodded. “Anything at all?”

“No, I’ll be alright, thank you.”

“I could help you prepare for bed. Remove your boots, perhaps.”

Theon opened his mouth to decline again, then stopped. Willas was stalling. He truly didn’t want to go to sleep. There were nights when Theon didn’t want to go to sleep either. Perhaps he should indulge the young man. Normally he didn’t allow anyone to see him in any state of undress—only the maester, and Sansa should it ever be necessary—but, well, it would just be his boots. They were difficult to get off on his own. And Willas wouldn’t even see his feet under the wrappings, his missing toes and the scar from where he had been pierced through with a screw.

“Yes, that would be helpful,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

He pushed back from his desk while Willas hurried to put the poker back in its stand. The young man went back to staring at the ground as he shuffled forward, hair hanging over his eyes again. He looked as apprehensive as Theon felt, and for a moment Theon considered calling it off. It wasn’t necessary. He could fumble his own boots off. But he sensed it was important to Willas. Important that he had a legitimate excuse to stay, to not retire for the evening and be left alone once again with his thoughts.

So, Theon raised his right foot first.

Willas sank down to his knees. Grasped the top of the boot with his right hand and the heel with his left. Theon straightened his foot to allow the boot to slip off more easily as Willas began to pull. It still took a few tugs, but then the leather was sliding off of Theon’s foot. His toes stretched, and he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

It was always nice to be released from the constraints of the day.

Willas set the boot aside and held out his hands for the other. Without thinking, Theon obliged and lifted his left foot. Willas took it, pausing a moment to run his hands over the leather, almost appreciatively. The fabric was rough and worn, Theon knew, and surely Willas couldn’t feel much through his gloves.

He gently began to work it off the foot. The tug of the leather, the way it seemed to hold tighter the moment before it came loose. It was satisfying to his aching bones.

Theon let out another sigh, but was surprised when, instead of his footing dropping to the floor, he felt hands on his ankle. Not flesh on flesh, no. But the distinctive pressure of a hand nonetheless. He looked down and saw Willas holding his foot.

Just…holding it.

Lightly trailing gloved fingers up his clothed ankle, to his shin. His eyes met Theons, but were wide but unfocused. He seemed…mesmerized somehow. Not aware of what he was doing. Not until Theon’s toes twitched, completely of their own accord.

Then Willas blinked. He looked down at his hands, and then he was dropping Theon’s foot and jumping back as if he’d been burned. “I’m sorry!” he cried out.

“No, it’s—you’re fine,” Theon said, though he did draw his leg back to himself.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Willa stood abruptly. “Forgive m—I need to—I should…” Head down, eyes on the floor, he hurried from the room.

Theon stood to go after him, then thought better of it and sat back down. The chair creaked under his weight, as did his bones. The fire crackled.

He wasn’t sure what had happened just now, but it had frightened Willas terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice there is now another chapter to come. The story is not over yet!


	4. Chapter 4

Loras washed his hands in the basin and wished he could scrub the filth from his mind as easily as he did from his skin.

It was just…last night, in Ser Theon’s quarters…he’d been on his knees and it had been so long since he’d touched another human, let alone a man…and when he’d looked up…he’d realized how handsome Ser Theon was. Not…not a conventional sort of handsome, perhaps. But the flickering of the fire’s light on the lines and edges of his face had made it undeniable. The moment had been so gods-damnned gentle, and for a second Loras had…

He’d…

He ran his wet hands over his face. Was surprised anew by the rough texture of his burned skin.

_My face. Is that my face?_

His fingers felt the edge of the Seven Pointed Star. Although, really, there were only about two points you could even make out anymore. The rest lay under layers of scar tissue.

He straightened up from the basin.

_Careful. You need to be careful._

He could not slip again.

He did not allow himself to think about it the entire day, focusing on his chores. He was really nothing more than a glorified courier these days, handling tasks that were more appropriate for a child. But it was vastly preferable to shoveling pig shit. Although, when he’d been shoveling shit at the inn, he never did think about Margaery or the Sparrows or Renly…

There wasn’t much room for thought at all when you were working your hands until they cracked and bled.

His hands didn’t bleed so much at Winterfell, but hurrying from place to place, taking notes and then delivering them, kept him on his feet, and when he was on his feet, he was often thinking about his missing toes. The maester had saved most of them, but that just meant he was more aware of the ones that were gone. The empty gaps under his foot wrappings. And the way his entire body was slightly off-balance these days.

He was thinking of his toes now, as he made his way down the hallway, and definitely not about last night in Ser Theon’s quarters…

He swallowed. He would need to report to Ser Theon sooner or later. He was the man’s attendant, after all. Ser Theon had gone out of his way to see to it. He really was a good man. But also sad, Loras thought.

“Willas.”

What would he think of Loras he knew…if he knew of his proclivities?

It had always been something of an open secret in King’s Landing. He’d been used to _looks_ , of course, from people who _knew_ , but never…it had never been a problem. Not until…

“Willas!”

And the North was different. Very different. Loras didn’t still didn’t understand much of this cold, dark place, and its grim people. Even the architecture was not as open, everything enclosed and shut in. Dark. Hidden.

Would Ser Theon be disgusted with him? He would certainly be disgusted to know a worthless, ugly thing like Willas Flowers had even _thought_ about him that way. Willas Flowers, the lowborn bastard from the Reach. That’s who he was now.

“Loras.”

He looked up at the sound of his name. A full second later he realized it wasn’t a name he should be responding to at all.

“I thought that might get your attention,” Lady Sansa said.

She was standing barely three paces in front of him. He would have walked right past her without even noticing.

Loras ducked his head. “Forgive me, my lady. I-I thought you said ‘Willas’.”

“I said ‘Willas’ twice.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. The second thing he’d learned, after “thank you” was “sorry.” “Sorry” was more powerful than “thank you,” and he said it often. “I wasn’t paying attention. I should have been—”

Sansa took a step forward. Her hands were clasped at her waist, and he caught a glimpse of the fur lining on the inside of her sleeves. Her hair was combed back into a severe braid, very different from the extravagant hairstyles she’d favored in King’s Landing. She looked even less like a little girl right now. Especially when her eyes found his. He could not look away, though he desperately wanted to. “Loras Tyrell. You’re a long way from King’s Landing.”

Loras let out a defeated breath. There was no sense in carrying on the charade. “How long have you known?”

“The first day, in the stables,” she said bluntly. Then smiled. “Not _right_ away, mind you. It was your eyes that gave you away. That Tyrell green. Very difficult to miss.” An inscrutable look passed over her face, something like regret or pain. He couldn’t be sure. “I’d heard you were supposed to be dead.”

“I sometimes wonder if I’m not.”

Sansa glanced over his shoulder, then her own. “Would you prefer we speak somewhere more private?”

He nodded gratefully.

Her solar was cozy. Not a full fireplace, but a brazier added light and warmth to the room. “Please, sit,” she said, motioned to one of the chairs. Loras did, glad to be off his feet, though Sansa remained standing, pacing around to the other side of the heavy oaken desk from which she ruled as Wardeness of the North.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, my lady.”

“If I were angry at you, I would have put a stip to things much sooner.” She leaned against her desk. “It’s not for me to expose you if you’d rather remain hidden, but you do know that you’re the only living heir to High Garden, right?”

“I don’t want it.”

She held up a hand. “Please. _Don’t_ start. I’ve heard enough of _that_ to last a lifetime.” She let out a sigh. “It’s truly not my intent to drag you kicking and screaming out into the open, but I do think Theon deserves to know.”

Loras looked into his lap, at his clasped hands. He looked at the patches of burned skin poking out between the holes in his gloves. “It was never my intent to deceive him.”

“I know.” Sansa’s voice was soft. “But he told me about what happened last night…”

Loras winced. “Did he?”

“We don’t hold secrets between us. Theon was worried that he’d done something to frighten you.”

Loras’s head shot up. “No, not at all, my lady. It wasn’t him. It was me. I overstepped my bounds and I…I simply ruin everything I touch.” He rubbed his fingers together, felt the rough fabric where his skin could still feel. “I’m the one who got Margaery killed.”

Sansa cocked her head, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“If she hadn’t lied to save me, she wouldn’t…” He trailed off, not sure how much of the full story Sansa knew.

She seemed to know enough, though, because she pushed off from the desk and began pacing again. “I used to think that my father was dead because of me. If I hadn’t run to Cersei…if I hadn’t told her…” Her gaze fell somewhere on the carpet. “Loras, Margaery died because of Cersei. Cersei holds the blame for that, for all of it. Just like she holds the blame for killing my father. Her and Baelish and Joffrey…” She patted at the skirts of her dress, and it seemed an almost errant motion, as if she weren’t sure what to do with her hands. “The guilt never does go away though. Not entirely.”

Loras wasn’t sure what to say to that.

A moment of awkward silence hung in the air, and then Sansa shook her head. “Forgive me, I’m no arbiter of wisdom. I’m still learning myself.” She came around the desk. “But I do think you should tell Theon the truth.”

“Ser Theon is a good man.”

Sansa’s smile was sad. Sympathetic. “He is.”

“I don’t want him to get hurt because of me.”

“You won’t hurt him.” Sansa knelt down in front of him. “And he won’t hurt you either.” Her eyes moved up and to the right as she considered her words. “He…he has a good heart. He’s proof that there are still people in this world who want to do the right thing…to make amends for their mistakes. He’s made plenty himself. And I know the guilt has never left him either.”

“You don’t think he would mind that I’m…that I’m a…” He paused, realizing he wasn’t entirely sure if Sansa even knew.

She quirked her lips.

“That I feel that way…about men?” he finished.

“No,” Sansa answered, with a confidence that put Loras at ease.

“Did _you_ know?”

Sansa smiled like a cat. “Did you know, it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize? But I worked it out. Eventually.”

***

All of Sansa’s reassurances fled the moment Loras knocked on Ser Theon’s door and heard the answer, “Come in.” Two words. That’s all it took for him to consider simply turning around and retreating.

_You used to be the Knight of Flowers_ , he berated himself. _You were the head Renly’s Kingsguard. You survived the destruction of Baelor’s Sept. You can do this, you coward._

He opened the door.

Ser Theon’s desk was nothing as elaborate at Lady Sansa’s. Utilitarian, suitable for his tasks as Sansa’s Hand. He was seated there now, a pensive look on his face as he tapped the nib of his quill against a blank bit of parchment. He looked up as Loras entered. “Oh, Willas!” He jumped to his feet.

Loras felt the urge to run again. “Er…your reports, ser.”

“Are you all right?” Theon asked, and even though he’d stood, he didn’t make any effort to approach. For which Loras was glad. In fact, he seemed to have caught the way Loras flinched, because he half-sat again and tried to affect a more casual stance. “I…I didn’t see you around today, and with last night I was worried you’d…”

“Oh.” Loras hefted the tablets in his arms. “Oh, no, ser, it didn’t have anything to do with you.” He winced. He was supposed to stop lying to Theon. “Actually, I…I had hoped to speak with you about it…”

“Yes, I…” Theon made a show of shuffling his papers out of the way. “I should apologize.”

“No, my lord. It was me. I was the one who asked—I overstepped my bounds and I…I apologize for that.” Loras squared his shoulders. “I-I also need to apologize for something else.”

Theon became still, and Loras thought he caught a look of fear forming on the man’s face.

It was the absolute last thing he wanted—to cause Theon fear—and so he pushed ahead. “I’ve been lying to you. About my identity.”

Theon’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, you mean to tell me you’re _not_ a lowborn bastard from the Reach?” There was a hint of a grin on his lips, and Loras’s face burned. So, he’d not been fooling _any_ one, had he?

“No, ser. I…” He paused to swallow, because the spit was so thick in the back of his throat. “My name—my real name—is Loras Tyrell, of High Garden.”

Theon’s eyebrows shot up. “High Garden?”

Loras nodded.

“I figured you were highborn, or maybe a clergyman, but…High Garden.”

“I don’t want anything to do with it anymore. I’d rather everyone keep thinking I’m dead.”

“Fair enough.” Theon leaned back in his chair. “Being the heir to the Iron Islands only brought _me_ pain and misery as well. I understand.” He nodded, seemingly to himself. “Your secret’s safe with me, Will—Loras.”

Loras breathed a sigh of relief.

“I heard about what happened at Baelor’s Sept,” Theon went on. Loras’s face burned. If he had, then he most likely knew well _why_ Loras had been there on that day, the reason and outcome of his “trial” by the Sparrows. But Theon only said, “It’s incredible that you survived.”

“I’m not sure how I managed it,” Loras said with a small laugh.

It was meant to be light-hearted, but Theon’s face became grim, his eyes unfocused.

“I’ve asked myself the same question many times,” Theon said, his voice a near-whisper. Almost as if he weren’t speaking to Loras at all. “Why did I survive when so many others didn’t—good men and women, more deserving than I?” His hand strayed to his side. Loras had noticed him doing that occasionally and wondered if there was an old war wound there, or a scar. “Perhaps there’s a reason we’ve managed survived. Some…reason this world refuses to be done with us.”

Loras did not know much of Ser Theon’s story. Just what he’d heard in King’s Landing. The man had betrayed Robb Stark, to whom he’d been pledged. Taken Winterfell, burned it to the ground. After that…well, after that, Loras had been in the “care” of the Sparrows, and the politics of some frozen, faraway place had been the furthest thing from his mind.

He remembered what Theon had said last night, about the man who would hurt him.

Something stirred in him that he hadn’t felt since Renly. _Protect him_ , it said. _Don’t let anyone hurt him._

_You can’t protect anyone_ , another voice hissed. _You can’t even protect yourself._

“Will you allow me to keep serving you, ser,” he began, “as Willas Flowers?” He fiddled with his fingers, found that another thread was unwinding from his gloves. “I promise I will serve you faithfully as your attendant.”

Theon’s hand fell away from his side. “Loras,” he said, with a solemnity that threw Loras off, “please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a shit attendant.”

“Oh.”

“But now that I know who you really are, maybe we can find something more fitting for you to do.” He gestured to the tablets in Loras’s hands. “In the meantime, you can leave those on my desk.”

“Oh…right.” Loras had almost forgotten he was holding them, and he gripped them tighter as he slunk forward. “I did want to ask you…about last night…”

Theon had already picked up the letter he’d been reading earlier, but he glanced up.

“I’m sorry if I—if I upset you,” Loras went on. “If I…made you uncomfortable.”

Theon shifted slightly in his chair, in a way that suggested he _had_ been made uncomfortable. “It’s not a problem,” he said. “I shouldn’t have made you—”

“You didn’t _make_ me,” Loras interrupted, in a louder voice than he’d ever permitted Willas Flowers to use. When you were lowborn, you simply didn’t speak to your betters that way. He’d had to learn that early on. _Please_ and _I’m sorry_ were usually always better. Usually. “I offered. I wanted to be of use to you. I wanted…”

“You wanted a reason to not be alone,” Theon finished for him.

Loras nodded, ashamed to admit it, but also that he’d been seen through so easily. But then again, it wasn’t so bad to be seen, was it?

“You don’t need an excuse,” Theon said. “You can stay for a little while, if you wish.”

“Ah, I don’t want to trouble you, my lord.”

“I’m always troubled,” Theon sighed, and leaned his elbows on his desk. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

_Ease his mind_ , Loras’s strange newly stirred voice said. And he wanted to, desperately. But what could he offer, really? No matter what name he went by, he wasn’t Loras Tyrell anymore. That man had died at Baelor’s Sept. Probably long before, if he were being honest. All that was left was this ugly, burned, useless husk.

Theon ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, glanced at the papers sprawled out under him, and then looked up at Loras. “Well? Would you care to have a seat?”

Loras nodded dumbly and started to sit in the chair across from the desk. Then stopped. “Would you like me to stoke the fire, ser? While I’m up?”

Theon glanced to the fire. “That would be appreciated.” A bob of his head and a grateful smile. A small thing. “Thank you, ser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, okay! That's one down. I apologize again for the herky-jerky nature of this fic. I'm getting back into more long-form fics and I'm afraid I'm still a little rusty. Comments and concrit are always welcome.
> 
> I intend to have the next installment out sometime in the first half of November. Check in to see which mystery man Theon will be meeting next. ;)


End file.
